The Not Quite Last Rep

A rather grueling leg battle this morning prompted some thought.  As I paused somewhere between the 25th and 30th squat with my thighs parallel to the deck and my bodyweight resting upon my weary shoulders I was inspired with this:
 
The bar atop my frame was designed with a singularity of purpose.  It works in concert with a series of precisely measured plates of various weight and a gravitational body to persuasively elicit muscle failure.  I can choose to accept this submissive posture reminiscent of a mating ****or I can resist the geometrically growing urge to succumb to exhaustion and continue this repetitious movement until the count in my head reaches zero.  The difference is quite clear:  One choice belongs to the bar, the other belongs to me.  What this iron staff doesn't mention in its insistence is that the easy path to relief it offers involves shame, regret, and increased difficulty should I ever attempt further defiance.  Lower this mass onto the spotter bars and crawl away, or forge ahead into the diary of pain only to ask for more?
 
Raise your head and taste the fury.
 
The bar can have its victory long after my life's blood has left my arteries.  For now my wrath will be the only reward for this insolent challenge by an inanimate object.  For now, I tease a hefty length of metal with close passes to the ground it desires most.  As of this writing, angry blood still courses through my veins and every day my lungs fill fuller.  It is the bar that finds increasing difficulty with further belligerence.

RIP 2004-2007